


the little ordinary things

by mercutioes



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sweet Tender God Husbands Have A Nice Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 06:40:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11351958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutioes/pseuds/mercutioes
Summary: moments of samothes and samot in the city of light





	the little ordinary things

**Author's Note:**

> title from the nat king cole version of "the very thought of you", which i listened to on repeat while writing this

Strains of a faraway guitar float into the forge, wafting over the hiss of the fire and the clanging of hammer on anvil.  Samothes almost doesn’t notice it until he finds himself humming along under his breath, a melody as old as the city itself.  He pauses, slowly lowers the hammer, closes his eyes to savor the familiar tune.

He can’t work on a day like this.

He finds Samot in their library, poring over some old tome or another.  He squints when Samothes opens the door, daylight pouring in and illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.  He looks like he’s been there for days, a chaotic array of bottles and papers scattered across the table at which he sits.  He very well might have been there for days – it’s easy for people like them to lose days, weeks to their work.

Something fond in Samothes’ chest clenches at the sight of Samot’s mussed hair and disheveled robes, just as it has since the Boy-King came into existence and every time after that.  He wonders if it will ever stop.

“Come on,” says Samothes.  “We’re going out.”

He laughs at Samot’s answering pout, leaning against the doorframe and folding his arms.  Samot sighs and stretches catlike, arms above his head and groaning as his back complains from hunching over books for hours on end.

“I suppose I could use a break,” he concedes, standing and blowing out the scattered candles.  “But if we’re going out, _dear_ husband, I insist you put on a shirt.”

He puts a hand on Samothes’ chest as he passes, leaning up to plant a quick kiss on his cheek before heading down the hallway towards their bedroom.  Samothes watches him go, unable to stop a slow smile spreading across his face.

\--

It’s days like this when the infinite stretch of time before them doesn’t seem so daunting at all.  They replace their divine robes with mundane cotton clothes and wander through the streets, hand in hand, no destination at all – past market stalls, shop fronts, restaurants and blacksmiths and the everyday rumble of life in the City.

It’s easy to lose perspective from on high – the vibrancy of every person they pass seems so much bigger from here.

Samot stops them at a café, the aroma of freshly baked bread and deep notes of chocolate pulling him in.  A waiter brings cups of dark, sweet coffee to their window table, bowing slightly with an unconscious deference borne of their mere presence.  Samot smiles at Samothes over the rim of his mug, radiant in the midday sun.

Samothes gazes out at the passers-by and wonders how long this can last, this paradise of a city that they’ve built together.  He knows it’s not forever, that it can’t be – days and nights of work and research and theory and arguments have proven that well enough.

Something must show on his face, because Samot puts a hand on his arm.

“Not right now,” he says, voice low and soothing.  Samothes places a hand over Samot’s, still enamored with the way they fit together even after a millennium or more, pale skin softly contrasting with his own, weather-worn and dark.  There comes a peace with a thousand-year intimacy, whole conversations translated into a single touch.

He lets the noise of the afternoon wash over him, customers coming in and out of the café and people talking and moving in the street.  Every once in a while, Samot will point out something interesting – a traveler’s foreign style of dress, a relic for sale with a storied history, a fantastic instrument, young couples newly in love and old couples long at peace.

They leave the café and wander through a nearby marketplace in the waning golden hours of the afternoon, walking between stalls of trinkets and fruit and books and paintings.  Samothes chats with the vendors, asking them about the crops this year, their spouses, their families.  It’s much harder to think of them as his subjects when they lead lives so _rich_ , so full of joy and sorrow and love.  He buys a bag of apples from a woman and her wife, newly married and still glowing from it, unable to keep from grinning at each other for more than seconds at a time.  Samot smiles wryly, squeezes his hand.

“I wonder if we were ever that love-struck,” he muses, plucking an apple from Samothes’ bag and examining its shiny red skin before taking a bite.

“I never stopped,” Samothes replies, pressing a kiss to the top of Samot’s head.

\--

His sun sets in a spectacular array of pinks and oranges that night.  Samothes can hear the faint twang of the song from this morning, and he pulls Samot towards the source, down stone streets and through thinning crowds.

They finally happen upon a small lit square where a duo is playing soft, slow music – a guitar and a violin rising and falling together.  Couples are dancing slowly, swaying to the tranquil rhythm.  It’s a hot night in the city, but not stiflingly so – the kind of comfortable warmth that just feels safe.  Light from the moons is mingling with the light of the torches, throwing everyone into a delicate balance of soft light and shadow.

“Care to dance, my husband?” asks Samot, offering a hand and nodding his head to the makeshift dance floor.  Samothes smiles, lets Samot put a guiding hand on his shoulder blade, resting his own on Samot’s shoulder.  They clasp their free hands together in a loose hold, fingers twining.

Samot guides them towards the middle of the square, navigating past couples too caught up in each other to notice them passing.  He leads Samothes in a simple side-to-side, spinning lazy circles around each other.  The light glints off his hair, making it look like spun moonbeams in the night’s glow.  The music fades into the background, a quiet peace settling over the two gods as they sway in the middle of their golden city.

Samot turns him, spins him out before pulling him in even closer, cheek to cheek.  Samothes relishes the feeling of Samot’s body pressed to his, breathes in the scent of Samot’s curls, the smell of dusty books and petrichor and lavender.  He feels like he should say something, anything, but the moment is too precious, too fragile to ruin, so he instead lets Samot lead him gently to the rhythm of the guitar and the sweet trill of the violin.

The music reaches a soft end, and Samot deftly throws Samothes’ free arm around his neck and dips him low to the ground.  Samothes laughs loudly, delighted.

“I think we’re in a storybook,” he says, stroking a thumb across Samot’s cheek.

“Maybe I’ll write it someday,” Samot replies, bending low to kiss him, tender and promising.  For a moment, the world seems to freeze around them, narrowing down to the meeting of their lips and the mingling of their breath.

Time resumes only when Samot breaks away and pulls Samothes back to steady ground.  They hear a smattering of applause in the square for the musicians, who bow slightly before starting to pack their instruments away.

“Let’s go home, my love,” says Samothes, taking his husband by the hand and leading him out of the square.

And if the other dancers in the square that night go home a little warmer, a little more in love, well.  Love between gods is a powerful thing.

**Author's Note:**

> im constantly crying about samsam and now you can too :')


End file.
